Three Crimes Trilogy, One: Burglary
by Joodiff
Summary: Intended as the first part of a linked trilogy of stories set in S4. Part One, Burglary, is set immediately post-"In The Sight of the Lord". T for language and adult themes. Boyd/Frankie. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Just to prevent any confusion, this story is complete in itself (you should have 2 chapters),  
>but forms the first part of a trilogy set in S4. Enjoy! :)<p>

* * *

><p><strong>DISCLAIMER:<strong> I own nothing.

**Three Crimes Trilogy**

**One – ****Burglary**

By Joodiff

* * *

><p>"Please, I've had enough," Grace finally announces, holding her hands up in mock-surrender.<p>

"All right, all right," Boyd says, just a little gruffly. "Give it a rest, all of you. Grace has had enough. No more nail jokes."

"Sorry, Grace," Mel and Frankie say simultaneously, but they're both still grinning.

Spencer Jordan puts his just-emptied pint glass down and says, "Yeah, sorry, Grace. We're just letting off steam… Celebrating nailing another case."

"Stop it," Grace says in a firm voice. Leaning down, she picks up her handbag and announces, "Right, I'm off. I've got a whole weekend of quiet, soothing research planned, so if you could all avoid stumbling across anything which needs urgent investigation, I'd really appreciate it."

"Suits me," Spencer says with a wide grin. "I've got some serious partying to do."

"That's just sad, Spence," Mel says, elbowing him in the ribs. "At your age."

"Now then, children," Grace says as she stands up. She pulls her coat on, glances at her watch and says, "Have a great weekend, everyone. See you bright and early Monday morning. 'Night."

A chorus of goodnights follows her as she walks across the saloon bar of the Black Dog, heading for the door. A moment later, she's gone. Boyd finishes his drink, stands up himself, "I'm going to make a move, too."

"Hey, it's your round," Spencer complains.

Boyd ignores him, says, "Frankie, you want a lift?"

She nods, finishes her own drink, "Great, thanks."

Mel rolls her eyes, "And then there were two. You want to go down to the Redmond for an hour or two, Spence?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Just make sure you both make it as far as the office on Monday morning," Boyd warns them. "C'mon, Frankie, let's go."

"Give me a chance," Frankie complains, struggling into her coat. She pulls a face at her colleagues.

-oOo-

The rain is getting heavier as they drive south across Tower Bridge and Frankie is not impressed. She and Boyd both live south of the river, she near Southwark Park, he in Greenwich, and although it's hardly a daily occurrence, it's not unheard of for her to grab the occasional lift from him. Ordinarily, however, he drops her off on the main road and she walks the rest of the short distance home. Tonight, though, she realises, she's going to get soaked in the deluge. It genuinely doesn't occur to her to ask him to drive out of his way just to save her from the indignity, so she sits in silence, sulkily contemplating the sheer volume of water falling from the sky and splashing up from the road.

When he flips the indicator on and makes a smooth right turn, she glances at him, genuinely startled. Succinctly, he says, "You'll drown out there."

Frankie relaxes, says, "Thanks, Boyd."

"No problem."

Only a few minutes later, they're in her street, and Frankie can see the outline of the big, Victorian building – long converted into flats – where she's lived for the past six years. For a moment the familiarity of the view deceives her, but then she freezes in her seat and says quietly, "Boyd…"

He glances at her, "What?"

Frankie nods at the building ahead of them and says, "The lights in my flat are on. And before you ask, no, they weren't on when I left this morning, and no, no-one has a spare key."

Boyd doesn't answer immediately, simply slows the car and noses it gently into the side of the road. Switching off the ignition, he says, "Fair enough. Let's go and take a look, shall we?"

-oOo-

The moment they step onto the landing, Frankie can see that her front door is standing ajar. Her first instinct is to rush towards it, ready to challenge any intruder, but without saying a word, Boyd blocks her with a quick side-step, placing her firmly behind him. Even as distracted as she is, Frankie is fascinated by the change in him. The wryly affable, off-duty colleague sharing a few drinks at the end of the working week is gone, replaced by the tough, experienced police officer she knows only too well. His shoulders are set square as he moves silently but decisively towards the door.

Keeping behind him, she watches as Boyd cautiously pushes the door further open. There's no movement, no sound from within the flat, and after a second or two he steps through the doorway into the large, open-plan room beyond. Frankie follows him, taking in the chaos in silence. The room looks as if it has been hit by a small tornado, furniture and possessions strewn everywhere. Silently, Boyd points towards the door on the far side of the room. Frankie mouths 'bedroom'; he nods and prowls towards it. Reasoning that if she walks straight into trouble Boyd is close by, Frankie checks the bathroom herself. No intruder. The chaos isn't as great, but the room has certainly been searched.

Boyd's voice makes her jump as he calls, "There's no-one here."

Frankie joins him back in the main room, putting her hands on her hips as she slowly surveys the mess. She says, "Well, this is just a great start to the bloody weekend."

"Anything obvious missing?"

"Not that I can see, but given the state of the place… Oh, wait," Frankie says, carefully stepping through the carnage without disturbing anything. She sighs, "Looks like my laptop's gone."

Boyd shoots her a look, "What was on it?"

"Mostly personal, but some stuff I'd brought home on a USB key. The BIOS is password protected, though, so it's not as easy as simply guessing the log-in."

"I'll call DCI O'Donnell at Rotherhithe nick," Boyd says, producing his phone. "Get their SOCOs over."

"I can – "

He shakes his head, "No, Frankie, you can't. This isn't our jurisdiction, and even if it was – "

"Oh, I know," Frankie says irritably. She looks around again, taking in not just the disorder but the damage. With heartfelt venom, she says, "Fuck."

-oOo-

"Chances are, it's just a straightforward burglary," Andrew O'Donnell says. "We've had a spate of them in this area over the last fortnight. But since you work for the Home Office, Doctor Wharton, we're going to need time to conduct a thorough examination of the whole flat to be certain that's the case."

"Yeah, I know," Frankie says unhappily. She's standing on the landing with O'Donnell and Boyd. Several of her neighbours have already been questioned by O'Donnell's DS, a tall, slim young man with fiercely red hair. And given the lateness of the hour, those neighbours are far from pleased at the level of activity currently going on just outside their doors. She sighs for what feels like the millionth time and says, "You're sealing my flat?"

"I'm afraid so," O'Donnell says, sounding apologetic.

"You know the drill, Frankie," Boyd says quietly.

"Yeah. Okay, well, I'd better get on with trying to find somewhere to sleep tonight, then, hadn't I? You'll call me if there are any developments?"

"Of course, Doctor Wharton," O'Donnell assures her.

Turning her back on her front door, Frankie walks determinedly towards the stairs. There's nothing else she can do. She looks at her watch. Past midnight on a wet Friday night in London. Starting the descent of the stairs, she contents herself with a litany of muttered curses. She hears Boyd's feet on the stairs behind her and glances over her shoulder, "Know any good hotels?"

He says, "Do you want to makes some calls? I can give you a lift somewhere."

Frankie shrugs and carries on descending, "No point. My sister's out of town and I don't want start ringing round anyone else at this time of night. I'll find a hotel."

There's a short silence from behind her, then a gruff, rather awkward, "Well, if it comes to that, my spare room's empty."

Frankie processes the words carefully, trying to decide on an appropriate response. On the one hand, it's certainly a good offer, and on the other… not so good. Refusing to look round at him, she says, "Thanks, Boyd, but I can hear you mentally kicking yourself for that one from here."

"I was actually serious," he says, still sounding rather gruff. "Fuck's sake, Frankie, it's raining, it's the middle of the bloody night and I'm not about to let you go walking round London on your own looking for somewhere to stay, so you might just as well come home with me and save me all the driving around."

They reach the bottom of the stairs. Even with the street door closed, Frankie can hear the wind and the rain. She says, "I don't know, Boyd…"

He gives her a look, says, "Christ, what on earth do you think's going to happen to you? I'm a respectable, middle-aged police officer, for God's sake."

"In your dreams, Boyd. Well, the respectable bit, anyway," Frankie says, opening the street door. If anything, the rain is even heavier and even though it's a summer storm, the temperature has dropped considerably. She weighs up her options for a moment. Common sense tells her to start calling hotels. She says, "I'll never live it down."

"Just get in the damned car, Frankie."

-oOo-

"Woah," Frankie says as he pulls the car onto the drive. "Nice place. They obviously pay you way too much, Boyd."

"Nice place, big mortgage," Boyd says, unbuckling his seatbelt. He gets out, opens the rear door and starts rummaging around on the back seat. By the time Frankie's out of the car, he's juggling briefcase, laptop, a clutch of manila folders and his keys. She decides offering to help probably isn't a good idea and simply follows him up the steps to the imposing front door.

Watching him go to work on the locks, she says, "Fortress Boyd, eh?"

"For some reason there seem to be a lot of people around who don't like me. Wait there while I turn the alarm off."

Frankie isn't altogether sure what to expect, but once inside she realises the house is disappointingly normal. Neutral colours, good quality furniture, period features. The kind of place any estate agent would love. And it seems that its occupant lives a pretty mundane life, too – daily paper and empty coffee mug still on the coffee table next to a pile of unopened bills; a stack of paperwork on the dining table, a small pile of CDs dumped on one of the speakers of a very expensive music system. Lamentably ordinary, in fact.

"What?" Boyd says, sounding a touch defensive.

Realising he's noticed her detailed scrutiny of the room, Frankie says quickly, "Nothing. Just curious, that's all."

"Contrary to popular belief," he says with dignity, "I do have a life outside my office. You want a drink?"

"Actually, that would be good. This has not been the best evening of my life."

"Scotch or brandy? Or there may still be a beer in the fridge."

Frankie flashes a grin at him, "You own a fridge, Boyd? Bloody hell."

"Hilarious, Frankie," he says dryly.

-oOo-

It's a while and several drinks later.

"Bastards," Frankie says with the purposeful solemnity of the more than slightly inebriated. "You know what I'm gonna do if O'Donnell catches them? I'm going to get some of those nine-inch nails and – "

"No, no, no," Boyd says, waving a languid hand in the air. "I'm all done with the nails thing. No, we'll just stick 'em in an interview room alone with Grace for an hour or two. That'll get them screaming for mercy."

Frankie blinks slowly, says, "But Grace is lovely."

"Did I say she wasn't?"

She's curled in a large and exceptionally comfortable easy chair, and she raises her head to stare at him properly. Boyd's sprawled on the sofa, feet up, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, half-empty glass resting on his chest. In the half-light of the table lamp that's providing the room's only illumination, he looks shadowy and more than a little lupine. Mentally deciding to blame it squarely on the amount of Scotch she's consumed, Frankie asks, "So come on, then, Boyd, why aren't you and Grace together?"

Dark eyes fix on her steadily, and just as she's absolutely certain he's not going to favour her with any kind of an answer, he says, "Let's just say that the lady's extremely discerning."

Frankie grins and says, "Ouch."

He sighs with more than a hint of dramatic flair, "She says I have commitment issues."

"Yeah, well she's right, isn't she?"

Boyd glares at her, but the expression is very obviously feigned. "Thanks for that. Kick a man when he's down, why don't you?"

Frankie studies him, noting how relaxed he appears to be on his own territory, how very different from the man he is at work. Maybe it's just the whiskey, maybe not. She says, "You really don't help yourself by flirting with every woman in the building, Boyd."

"Oh, you know I'd never dare flirt seriously with anyone but you, Frankie," he says with a quick grin. It's a distinctly boyish expression, and it momentarily knocks years off him.

"Yeah, right," Frankie says dryly.

They lapse into a companionable silence. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimes two o'clock, making Frankie jump. She yawns, sits herself up straight, "Come on, then, where's this spare room of yours?"

"Give me a minute to lock up, and I'll show you."

-oOo-

"This is a really big house for one man," Frankie says, trailing along the landing after him, mentally counting the number of doors. Through the pleasant alcohol haze, she abruptly realises what she's said – she's seen the pictures of Boyd's ex-wife with their missing son prominently displayed downstairs. She winces, says quickly, "Fuck. Sorry, that was unbelievably tactless."

"It was," Boyd agrees, but there's no rancour in his tone. Frankie suspects that he's a little more sober than she is, but the drinks have certainly softened some of his sharper edges. He jerks a thumb towards one of the doors, "Main bathroom. You're quite safe; I have an en suite."

"Okay. Are you going to tell me which is your room so I don't accidentally walk in on you when I get lost trying to find the spare room again?" Frankie asks, in the most ingenuous tone she can muster.

The look he gives her can best be described as enigmatic, she decides. He says, "End door on the right. You won't miss it – it'll be the one that's securely locked from the inside."

"Worried about your virtue, Boyd?" Frankie teases him.

"No," he says smoothly, and something very feral is suddenly glinting in his eyes. "Worried about yours."

Catalytic moment. One that seems to last indefinitely.

There wasn't much space between them anyway, and now there seems to be even less. Worse, Frankie realises that her heart-rate has abruptly increased. _Bad idea,_ an urgent, completely sober voice in her head says quickly. _Very bad idea, Frankie…_

"We can't do this," she says abruptly, wishing she was more dedicated to the idea.

Boyd doesn't move, just agrees solemnly, "No, we can't."

"We really can't do this," Frankie says, resolutely trying to convince herself.

She wishes, fervently, that Boyd would simply step back, putting a safe distance between them, but he remains absolutely still, not speaking, just watching. It's too much to bear. Impulsively, and before she can think about changing her mind, Frankie says, "God, I want you…"

The speed and ferocity of his response astounds her, and a vague part of her mind wonders why. Peter Boyd is, after all, extremely notorious for being fiery and volatile. It's always fascinated her – his unpredictability, his capacity for exploding into action or fury without any hint of warning.

There are too many sensations. The solid wall pressing against her back, the heat and strength of him as he kisses her, the unambiguous male hardness trapped between them; the smell of him – whiskey and musk, a hint of sweat, a lingering trace of expensive soap. More – the feel of his hair, soft and dense as she buries her fingers in it, the roughness of his beard, the feel of his hand on her breast. All of it cutting deftly through the alcohol and going deep into her blood.

_Very, very__ bad idea,_ the sober voice in her head says again. _Frankie, are you crazy? This man is your boss… you know, the one who's always shouting at you to make the impossible possible, the one who signs your expense claims at the end of the month… The one you have to work with every day…_

She doesn't care, and the sudden realisation is liberating. It sets her free from any lingering inhibitions, allows her to drop a hand to his belt buckle, to quickly work it loose. Boyd twists, faster than Frankie thinks possible, breaking the kiss and grasping her wrist firmly, preventing any further ingress. Something very primitive is blazing in the depths of his eyes, something fierce and savage – but there's a clear question there, too.

Frankie answers it with an unintentionally husky, "End door on the right...?"

-oOo-

_c__ontinued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Three Crimes Trilogy**

**One – ****Burglary (continued)**

* * *

><p>It can't happen, but, of course, it does; and when morning comes, Frankie finds she doesn't regret a single moment of it. Boyd is sprawled out on his back, so deeply asleep that he doesn't stir even when she gets up to use the bathroom. When she returns, he hasn't moved, is apparently still lost in his own dreamland. Frankie studies him with a strange mix of wonder and affection, absorbing the long planes of his body, the symmetry of him. She looks at the jagged white scars on his stomach and flank and clearly remembers the moment she found out that he'd been stabbed, not just once but twice. She knows full well just how easily he could have died on that day.<p>

He's an interesting landscape, the faultless definition of youth long gone, replaced by a seasoned sort of toughness that speaks not of flawlessness, but of function. Frankie likes the balance of him, the confident mix of graceful age and utilitarian fitness; the precision of his imperfection. She likes the width of his shoulders, the gentle curve of his stomach. She likes the casual, insolent bulge of bicep where his arm is slightly bent, the broadness of his near-smooth chest and the way he sleeps stretched out, utterly self-possessed even in total unconsciousness.

"I can feel you staring at me," Boyd says, without opening his eyes. "Which wouldn't be quite so creepy if I didn't know how much you enjoy poking about with corpses."

"You're fine, Boyd," Frankie says, covering her surprise. Evidently not asleep after all, then. "Just don't stop breathing for too long, or I might be tempted to start cutting."

He finally opens his eyes, and in the shadows caused by the closed bedroom curtains, they look so dark she can't tell pupils from irises. He says, "Sometimes you really scare me."

Frankie laughs softly and drops back onto the bed. Effortlessly, she moves against him, instinctively knowing where they fit together, but she feels a real pang as he puts a heavy arm around her and kisses the top of her head. It would be far too easy, she realises, to inadvertently fall in love with him, to want to be with him. To wish for all the things that simply can't ever be. Trying to distract herself, she says, "You know, I always did have a thing about older men. Much older, in your case."

Mildly, "Piss off, Frankie."

She laughs again, impossibly glad that all the moments that could be so unbearably awkward are passing not in recrimination and regret but in easy humour. Tracing lazy patterns on his chest with her fingertips, she says, "I should call DCI O'Donnell, see if they've finished at the flat."

"Later," Boyd says, catching her wandering hand and deliberately moving it lower. His smile is angelic – and simultaneously unbelievably wicked.

Frankie smirks at him, but willingly concurs, "Later..."

-oOo-

Boyd's in the kitchen when Frankie finishes her telephone call and goes to track him down. For a moment she's almost frightened that she'll find him doing something embarrassingly domestic; making breakfast, perhaps. Fortunately for all her illusions, he isn't. He's leaning on the counter drinking coffee and scanning the morning paper. She tries hard not to notice that he's barefoot and casually dressed. But then, she reasons, it's Saturday morning, and surely even Boyd can't spend his entire life in a business suit?

He glances up, looking at her over the top of his reading glasses, "Well…?"

"SOCOs have finished, but O'Donnell wants to preserve the scene until he's got the lab results."

"Standard procedure."

"Yeah, I know. Laptop's definitely missing, and some jewellery and stuff. They took the car keys, but not the car. Looks like he was right – straightforward burglary. Lucky me, eh?"

He shrugs, "It happens. You want coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks," she says. Frankie hesitates before continuing, "Boyd, I kind of need to think about what I'm going to do now… I assumed I would be going back to the flat this morning, but…"

His carefully neutral expression doesn't change. He says, "It's entirely your call. You're more than welcome to stay, but if you're not comfortable with that, it's fine."

"I'm comfortable with it, if you are," Frankie says, deciding to be completely honest. "But I really need to get some stuff from the flat – O'Donnell said it would be okay, given the circumstances. I really hate to ask, but can I borrow your car?"

"Want me to drive you over there?"

Frankie shakes her head, "No, it's fine. I could be a while."

"Take my car, not the Lexus," Boyd says, producing a set of keys and throwing them to her.

Frankie catches them deftly, "Thanks, Boyd."

-oOo-

"Frankie!" Mel's voice, high and worried, on the other end of the line. "Are you okay? I just got a call from my friend Sally at Rotherhithe…"

Frankie leans back against the passenger door of Boyd's car and gazes up at the windows of her flat. She says, "I'm fine, Mel. Bastards were long gone by the time I got home."

"They take much?"

"Laptop, jewellery, that sort of stuff. I'll know more when I'm allowed back in properly."

"Where are you? Do you need somewhere to stay for a few nights?"

Frankie keeps her tone deliberately calm, "No, I'm sorted, thanks."

"Anything else I can do? D'you want me to call Boyd?"

"He knows," Frankie tells her. "He gave me a lift home, remember?"

"Okay… Well, if you need anything…"

"I'll call," Frankie promises. "Thanks, Mel. Look, my battery's going… See you Monday, okay? 'Bye."

She puts her phone back in her pocket, but she doesn't move. It seems like as good a time as any to gather her thoughts. Away from the confines of Boyd's house, the previous night is starting to feel like a particularly surreal dream. She thinks about the state of her flat, the holdall she's dropped onto the car's passenger seat. She thinks about the whiskey, the heat and the passion; the moments of wild, uninhibited frenzy; of her fingernails – short as they are – digging sharply into strong, warm muscle.

_Well, done, Frankie,_ the wry, sensible voice in her head says. _Congratulations, you've slept with your boss – more than once. So what exactly are you going to do now? _

-oOo-

"Frankie," Boyd says as he opens the door. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd run off with my car. O'Donnell's been trying to call you."

"Battery's flat," Frankie tells him, holding up her phone. "I take it there's some news, then?"

"Pretty much nothing of any use on the prints, so far, but they've found three samples of alien DNA that they're running against the database."

"I take it that excludes yours?"

Boyd nods, closing the front door, "Of course."

"One's probably Rob's," Frankie says, following him into the living room. It seems he's been working, because official-looking paperwork is untidily strewn around, and his laptop's open on the coffee table. Seeing his raised eyebrows, she explains, "He's one of my neighbours, an orthopaedic surgeon at Guy's. We have coffee."

Mildly, "Oh, yes?"

Amused, she says, "He's gay, Boyd."

"Meaning?"

"Nothing at all," Frankie says, straight-faced. "Have you eaten?"

Boyd shakes his head, "No."

"Give me twenty minutes to shower and stick some clean clothes on, and I'll stand you a late lunch."

-oOo-

Strangely, it seems like too much of an imposition to return to Boyd's en suite, so Frankie settles for the main bathroom. Plainly, it doesn't see much use; it's clean, neat and rather soulless. But there is a temptingly large bath, which she steadfastly ignores, and a similarly large shower which she doesn't. It's a family bathroom, she thinks. A family bathroom without a family. No wonder it has an empty, unused feel to it. Frankie wonders what it's like to return home every day to a house that obviously holds so many memories of happier days. Does Boyd find it soothing to have some physical connection to the past, or does it break his heart just a little bit more every day? She doubts he will sell the house while his son remains missing. Perhaps he holds onto a faint hope that one day he'll return home to find a familiar figure sitting outside on the steps waiting for him. The thought is intensely sad.

Turning under the warm, fierce spray of water, Frankie jumps as she catches sight of him standing nonchalantly in the doorway, watching her. Annoyed that she's been so easily startled, she snaps, "Voyeuristic tendencies, Boyd?"

"No," he says, sauntering towards her. "By definition, a voyeur is content to simply watch."

"Okay…" Frankie says, as he steps into the shower. "I think I should point out that you're actually still dressed."

"And…?" Boyd asks her, his shirt instantly soaked through. He closes his eyes and tips his head back under the pounding water, throat deliberately exposed. Whether it's purely accidental or entirely intentional, Frankie isn't absolutely certain, but it's a powerfully erotic image. Any vague notions she's started to entertain about re-establishing the boundaries between them are instantly swept aside. Boyd shakes his head, runs his fingers through his wet hair, and she can't stop herself reaching for him, pulling him into a kiss that's simultaneously passionate and defiant. She doesn't attempt to resist as he slowly and deliberately backs her against the wet tiles.

-oOo-

By mutual agreement, late lunch eventually becomes early dinner in a restaurant very close to Greenwich Park. A slightly more expensive, upmarket place than Frankie herself would ever have chosen, but a place with an atmosphere she finds she rather likes. Watching the other early-diners, she wonders what sort of impression she and Boyd make on them in return. Well-dressed, successful businessman and young, trophy wife, perhaps? Or simply good-looking older man and typically younger mistress? Not that it matters. Frankie has never been particularly worried about what strangers think of her.

With the meal eaten, and the wine nearly finished, she says, "So, is this the sort of thing that gets quietly forgotten and is never mentioned again?"

"The fish was that bad? I did tell you to have the steak."

"Oh, you're just so funny, Boyd," Frankie tells him scathingly.

He leans back in his chair and watches her for a moment. Then he shrugs, "You tell me."

It's a non sequitur, but Frankie follows it easily enough. She says, "God, and you wonder why Grace says you have commitment issues. You do realise that she – "

"Don't push your luck, Frankie," he interrupts, and although his voice is quiet, she doesn't miss the sudden, hard undertone. It seems she's hit a nerve. Which is interesting. Then again, it's hardly news – to Frankie or anyone else in the CCU – that Boyd has a very obvious soft spot for Grace. A stray sentence from the previous night's conversation filters back to her. Boyd's voice, more than slightly resigned saying, _"Let's just say that the lady's extremely discerning..."_

Obviously it's a subject to leave well alone. Particularly when sober.

Frankie waits for a moment, and then says, "Whatever this is we're doing, Boyd, we need to talk about it."

"We really don't," he replies in a tone that suggests that as far as he's concerned the subject's firmly off-limits.

Trying her hardest to be patient, Frankie says, "Will you at least listen to what I'm trying to say? In thirty-six hours we're both going to be back at work – less if something important crops up – and I don't want my professionalism compromised because I'm worrying about what the hell's been happening between us this weekend. Can you understand that, at least?"

"Don't patronise me, Frankie," Boyd says, and she sees the clear warning in his dark eyes.

"Fine," she says, a little more sharply than she intends. "Fine. I give up. Have it your own way, Boyd, you usually do."

-oOo-

They walk in an uncomfortable near-silence, somehow ending up by the river not far from Greenwich Pier. In stark contrast to the evening before, it's dry and pleasantly warm, even with the light breeze that comes in off the water. They stand side-by-side watching a small launch struggling its way east against the tide, towards the Thames Barrier.

Frankie's about to speak when Boyd abruptly says, "Look, Frankie, I just don't know what you expect from me."

She shrugs slightly, "Honesty."

He laughs, short and brittle. He looks round at her, says, "Take it from one who knows, that's the last thing most women really want, whatever they say."

"Try me," Frankie says simply. When he says nothing, she continues, "I'm not interested in a serious relationship, if that's what's freaking you out, Boyd. Or any sort of relationship, in fact. You're not the only one with commitment issues. Besides, you're a bad-tempered pain in the arse and at least fifteen years too old for me."

Boyd laughs again, but this time with real amusement, "One day I might just have to marry you, Frankie."

"Would you settle for reasonably good sex on a casual basis?" Frankie asks him, and despite her bantering tone she's not altogether joking.

He raises his eyebrows, "'Reasonably good'…? You wound me, Doctor Wharton. You really do."

"You'll live," Frankie assures him gravely, but she can't quite stop the grin that breaks through.

And quite suddenly everything's all right. The uncertain tension evaporates instantly, and Frankie isn't the only one who's grinning. Some things just seem to find a way to work themselves out without endless hours of anxiety and discussion. This is apparently one of those things.

The moment is a little spoiled by the sudden shrilling of Frankie's phone. But it doesn't really matter.

It's O'Donnell. The lab results are back. She can return to her flat whenever she wishes.

-oOo-

It's there, on her own territory, that Boyd surprises her. Not because he offers to stay and help clear the wreckage, but because it's such a mundane, ordinary sort of thing to do. And because he's patient about it, and because he simply follows her instructions without argument or complaint. He doesn't contradict, he doesn't attempt to assume command of the operation, he simply takes his jacket off and sets to. It's something Frankie would never have expected from him, and in a strange way it fascinates her. This is yet another side of him. And maybe it's who he really is, beneath all the different layers – just a man like any other, but one who attempts to reach higher than most. And he seems almost surprised when she eventually takes his hand and leads him quietly to her bedroom.

-oOo-

EPILOGUE

Brockham House is the sort of place Mel Silver would dearly love to own an apartment in. Alas, her salary won't remotely stretch to such a place, but she isn't afraid to dream. Most of the flats in the building are occupied by the young and wealthy, but despite the fact, it has a certain Bohemian charm. It's Sunday morning, and she's on her way home from a brief but long-promised catch-up with an old friend who's flying out to Australia that afternoon, and knowing that Frankie's back home after the burglary, it's no hardship for Mel to make a diversion on her way home.

Frankie's car is parked in the street, which Mel takes as a good omen. She enters the building and ascends the stairs, nodding to a young couple heading in the opposite direction. She reaches the familiar long landing punctuated by four anonymous front doors. Furthest from the stairs, and at the back of the building, Frankie's flat. Mel smiles to herself as she approaches the door. It's highly likely, she knows, that her colleague has only recently woken up, despite the fact that it's heading towards noon. An ideal opportunity, in Mel's humble opinion, for some less than gentle teasing. She knocks firmly, waits just a few seconds and knocks again before stepping back to wait patiently.

Perhaps a minute passes before the sound of deadlocks being turned indicates that yes, Frankie's at home, and yes, she's awake. The door opens a few inches, security chain still in place, and Frankie peers out. She looks awake and alert, but noticeably dishevelled. She says, "Mel… Hi…"

"Don't tell me," Mel says with a grin. "It was a hard night, and you've only been out of bed for half an hour?"

Frankie looks a little sheepish, "Something like that."

Still grinning, Mel says, "So? Are you going to let me in, or what?"

"Um…" Frankie says, sounding vaguely reluctant, but then, "Yeah, sure, come in a minute. But I'm really late for something, so – "

"Don't worry," Mel tells her as Frankie releases the security chain and pulls the door open, "I'm on my way home. I won't hold you up."

Frankie's flat is tidier than Mel expects. It seems she's already managed to achieve some sort of order, though remnants of post-burglary chaos remain. The morning sun is streaming in through the big windows, accompanied by a light summer breeze. Mel ignores the piles of papers and files that seem to engulf every flat surface, and focuses her attention on Frankie instead. She starts to say, "So, did you find out – "

"Frankie," a deep, male and very familiar voice calls from the direction of the bathroom.

Concisely, Frankie says, "Fuck."

Boyd. Unmistakably.

Mel tries desperately to unfreeze herself, but it's far too late. He's already walked out into the main room. Dripping from the shower he might be, but fortunately for all concerned, there's an appropriately large towel wrapped firmly around his waist. For a moment the three of them form an awkward, stunned sort of tableau.

With remarkable aplomb, given the situation, Boyd finally says, "Mel. Good morning."

Mel's caught between astonishment, mortification and incredulity. And she really, really doesn't need the unwelcome realisation that what she's always taken simply for good tailoring really isn't – Peter Boyd actually does have very broad shoulders.

"Um," Mel says, making a valiant attempt to find her voice as she wrestles with her thoughts. "I think I should probably leave now."

"Mel – " Frankie starts, her face crimson with embarrassment.

Boyd cuts them both short with, "Oh, for heaven's sake. Are we children here, or adults? Frankie, make Mel some coffee. Mel, sit down. Excuse me – suddenly I'm feeling conspicuously under-dressed."

Mel waits for him to retreat into the bedroom before clearing her throat and saying, "Well, that told us, didn't it…?"

It seems to break the ice. Frankie says, "Bloody great timing, Mel. Thanks."

Mel stares at her for a long, long moment, and then she starts to laugh. She says, "Boyd? Our Boyd? The grumpy, shouty bloke from work? Oh my God, Frankie. Best gossip ever. You've made my day."

Frankie's response is predictably succinct, "Fuck off, Mel."

Grinning madly, Mel says, "You're a bad, bad girl, Frankie Wharton."

And that's how it starts, the conspiracy of silence that's not going to last. But, of course, on that sunny Sunday morning, none of them know it will be shattered by the worst tragedy imaginable.

- the end -


End file.
